


Missed Connections

by cheyennesunrise



Series: Librarian Finch/Billionaire Reese AU [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 05:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1733165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheyennesunrise/pseuds/cheyennesunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lionel Fusco unwittingly plays matchmaker for a librarian named Harold Finch and a billionaire named John Reese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missed Connections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TimelessDreamer2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimelessDreamer2/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Timeless! I'm sorry if it's a little rushed. I hope you like it!
> 
> Note: 177.7 is the Dewey Decimal classification for love and romance.

 

_177.7_

Harold Finch straightened the stack of books again, clucking his tongue disapprovingly at the fraying bindings and dog-eared pages. It seemed like the library patrons were getting more and more careless, but he gave a resigned sigh and pushed himself away from the desk.

He was lucky that people even came to the library at all, really.

The seemingly never-ending flow of new apps and ereaders had turned Harold into a bit of a Luddite, but he had always loved the smell of old books and the feel of well-worn pages under his fingertips.

He was pulled from his reverie by an agitated harrumph. Harold immediately straightened his posture and looked up from his mountain of books.

“May I help you?” he asked quickly.

“Yeah, stop hidin’ behind Dickens and Proust, you nerd.”

Harold’s face softened at the sound of the gruff voice.

“Lionel, that Proust reference could be considered rather nerdy,” he said with a grin.

Lionel Fusco scoffed and shook his head at his old friend.

“Nah. Name dropping is one thing, but working in a library? Pssh. That takes the cake, Finch,” he returned, pausing for a moment to lean on the antique maple desk.

“I assume that things are quiet at the precinct, then?” Harold asked slowly.

Fusco shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. I haven’t been there all day.”

“What brings you here this evening, Lionel? I’m sure that you have something far more interesting on your schedule than a visit to the library,” Harold said quietly.

“Nope. I’m on duty tonight. There’s some kinda charity event tonight at 8. Some hotshot is trying to raise money for his noble cause or something. I chose that over Times Square duty. Have you been down there lately?”

Fusco shuddered, but Harold wasn’t paying attention.

“A charity event? Oh, dear. I never find out about these galas until the last minute,” he muttered.

“I suppose I’ll have to file these by tonight, and I _do_ believe that the reference section is understaffed, so I should-,” Harold fretted. He folded his hands nervously on the desk and glanced worriedly about the room, surveying every potential task on his mental to-do list.

“Whoa, whoa, it’s OK, Finch. I didn’t mean to freak you out,” Fusco said quickly. He patted Harold on the shoulder and offered a conciliatory smile.

“It’s not like you’re gonna emcee the event, Finch. It’s OK. Oh, but one thing-,” he added cryptically.

“Watch out for John Reese.”

“Lionel, what on earth are you-,” Harold faltered.

“What, you’ve never heard of John Reese, the billionaire? You need to get out more, Finch,” Fusco chuckled.

“Why should I be afraid of Mr. Reese?” Finch asked slowly, blinking his eyes in bewilderment.

“You’ll see,” Fusco said with a wink.

He glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath.

“Gotta go, Finch.”

“But-,” Harold protested.

Fusco smiled apologetically and gave Harold a parting wave.

Harold sank back in his chair and massaged his temples. He only had an hour before the gala, but there was only one thing on his mind.

_Who on earth was John Reese?_

_177.7_

The next hour flew by, and Harold Finch scarcely had a moment to tidy up his workspace and close out his station. The Forty-Second Street library was abuzz with noise and excitement, and a near-constant stream of board members, interns, and press representatives rushed past Harold and his old maple desk.

He wanted nothing more than to head home and curl up with a mug of sencha green tea, but he was behind on his paperwork. There was something else there too, a strange, niggling curiosity that tickled his brain and told him to wait.

 _Stick around- wait for Mr. Reese_.

Harold couldn’t even fathom why his mind decided to remind him of the mysterious billionaire, so he blamed it on Fusco. Lionel knew that, for all his practicality and fastidiousness, Harold Finch was easily flustered by a dapper gentleman.

He shook the thought away, but a tendril of curiosity remained, and Harold swore that he would get even with Lionel.

Harold was so engrossed in his work that he wasn’t aware of the looming presence behind him, or the gentle pat of a gloved hand on his shoulder.

“Excuse me?”

Harold whirled around at the sound of the velvety voice.

He was face to face with a tall, well-dressed man of forty-five. A pair of sky-blue eyes studied him intently, and Harold felt the heat creeping up his neck.

He prayed that his face didn’t betray his thoughts as he studied the man’s salt-and-pepper hair and long, lean frame.

“May- may I help you?” Harold stammered quickly.

“Yes, actually,” the taller man replied. Harold swore that he was deliberately stretching out his words to make them as honeyed and seductive as possible.

“I’m trying to find Astor Hall. There’s a gala there tonight,” he said with a smile.

Harold’s eyes widened. He should have assumed that this man would be one of the attendees. With his bespoke suit and leather gloves, the silver-haired stranger was a vision of elegance and sophistication.

“It’s on the first floor,” Harold said quickly. “Next to the gift shop.”

The man flashed another winning smile at Harold.

“Thank you for your help. What’s your name, by the way? I’d love to put in a good word with your supervisor,” he said in a low, rumbling voice that sent shivers down Harold’s spine.

“Harold. Harold Finch.”

Harold’s lips were moving, but he didn’t hear himself speaking. The stranger stooped his shoulders a bit so that he was eye to eye with Harold.

He took Harold’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

Harold was mesmerized, but he quickly shook it off and released the man’s hand.

“John Reese. The pleasure is mine.”  


With that, John gave Harold a wink and turned in the direction of the Astor Room.

It took a moment to register, but Harold’s eyes were as wide as saucers as he realized what the man had just told him.

“ _That was THE John Reese!”_

Harold waited until John disappeared down the marble staircase.

Then, cautiously, he followed Mr. Reese down the staircase, cursing his insatiable curiosity.

In the distance, Harold could hear an emcee tapping on a microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first annual fall literacy gala! We are pleased to introduce the man who made this night possible. Please help welcome the CEO of Reese Industries, Mr. John Reese!”

There was a collective murmur and an uproarious round of applause.

Harold ran down the last few stairs and searched the crowd for any sign of John.

He spotted a tall figure at the far corner of the stage, and the applause grew to deafening roar.

John Reese gave a short wave and walked to the middle of the stage. Harold couldn’t help but notice that, despite his erect posture and proud stance, John didn’t seem to bask in the adulation and praise.

There was almost something bashful to his downcast eyes and absent-minded knuckle-cracking, and it made Harold smile.

“Thank you,” John said softly.

“Thanks. I don’t want to bore you to death, but I just wanted to thank you all for coming tonight. None of this would be possible without you,” he paused, “or the employees of the New York Public library.”

John’s eyes drifted across the crowd, and Harold bit his lip.

Was John looking for him?

The thought was absurd, but something about it made the tips of his ears redden again.

The crowd gave another hearty round of applause, and John spoke briefly about the importance of education and the value of literacy.

Harold agreed with him, naturally, but he was hardly listening to John’s speech. He studied the long, loose limbs, the carefully-coiffed silvery sideburns, the impossibly long eyelashes-

He shook his head in embarrassment and realized that he was standing in full view of the crowd.

At that very instant, John looked up, and he held Harold’s gaze for a moment. He flashed a smile again and added a near-imperceptible wink that almost made Harold sway on his feet.

The librarian quickly turned away from the crowd and rushed back up the stairs.

_What the hell was he thinking?_

Harold Finch didn’t attend galas or associate with billionaires. He did crossword puzzles and collected vintage art noveau prints, for heaven’s sake!

He had no doubts that the illustrious John Reese lived a far more interesting life than he did, but the billionaire intrigued him, and Harold couldn’t forget those eyes.

_177.7_

Several days passed without any mention of John Reese, but Harold did hear that the evening had been a success. He returned to the quiet routine of his daily life, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he had imagined all of the winks and prolonged stares.

Why would John Reese take an interest in him? Harold had always appraised himself as rather dull and prosaic, and Fusco often teased him about his bookworm tendencies.

However, there was something in the way that John looked at him that made Harold look in the mirror more often. He wore newer glasses and ironed his shirts and waistcoats a little more carefully, but he knew that he was being silly.

After all, John Reese was second to perhaps Donald Trump in wealth, but without all of the scandals and notoriety.

It was a rather mundane Wednesday when Lionel Fusco came to visit his old friend Harold Finch again.

The detective leaned on the desk and cleared his throat, and Harold’s head shot up from his pile of paperwork.

“I apologize for the mess, Lionel, but I have to finish this by four o’clock-,” Harold began, but Lionel cleared his throat again and looked him directly in the eye.

“I hear ya, Finch. I just wanted to tell you something. It’s about that John Reese guy.”

Harold’s head snapped up the mention of John’s name.

“What about Mr. Reese?” he asked quickly.

Lionel suppressed a grin and raised an eyebrow at Harold’s reaction.

“Now I got your attention, huh? Anyway, this Reese guy was asking about you,” he said casually.

“Said he wanted to thank you for helping him out that night,” Fusco added.

Harold’s heart was racing. “Thank me? For what? And how did you find out, Lionel?”

“I’m a detective,” Fusco grinned. “It comes with the territory.”

“Is there any way to contact Mr. Reese?” Harold asked. He winced at his boldness, but it didn’t matter. He was intrigued by the billionaire and apparently, the feeling was mutual.

“Nah. He just said to go to the Tavern on the Green at five,” Fusco shrugged.

“Five? How did he know my schedule?” Harold wondered aloud.

“Detective, remember?” Fusco said lightly. Harold started to protest, but he quickly set his mouth in a firm line.

“Fine. I will meet with Mr. Reese, but I hope that you aren’t up to something,” he said briskly.

Lionel grinned.

“See ya around, Finch.”

Harold’s expression softened.

“Thank you, Lionel.”

_177.7_

Harold’s shift ended at 4, so he scarcely had any time to prepare for his meeting with Mr. Reese.

 _It wasn’t a date_ , he kept reminding himself.

_It wasn’t a date._

Harold checked his watch and straightened his tie for the twentieth time in ten minutes. He had chosen a grey tweed suit and an off-white shirt with a conservative blue and grey tie.

It was rather simple, but it was the nicest suit that Harold owned, and he wanted to at least match Mr. Reese’s professional wardrobe.

He paced around the library bathroom and studied his reflection in the mirror. His hair was starting to look a little too spiky, and his tie suddenly seemed too flashy.

Harold calmed himself with a shaky breath, taking one last look at himself as he smoothed his hands over the well-worn suit.

With his sharp new frames and neatly-trimmed hair, he didn’t look half bad.

Harold smiled at himself and cleared his throat.

“Pleased to meet you again, Mr. Reese.”

His voice sounded sycophantic and saccharine, but that was something that he would have to work on in the taxi.

Harold rushed out of the library and stood at the edge of the sidewalk. He hailed the nearest cab with a furious wave of his hand, and with that, he was on his way.

_177.7_

Harold arrived at the restaurant at five o clock on the dot. He hurried inside and searched the room for any sign of Mr. Reese.

The maître’d greeted him with a warm smile.

“Mr. Finch?”

Harold nodded quickly.

“Please follow me,” he said. The maître’d guided him an expansive sunroom at the back of the restaurant. Harold squinted in the bright afternoon light and marveled at the chandeliers and silver flatware. His idea of a fancy restaurant was the upscale bakery on 30th, so the Tavern was a rather impressive sight.

“Here we are,” the maître’d said suddenly, and Harold stopped short.

John Reese was already seated at the table, head buried in a menu.

“Mr. Reese?” the maître’d asked cautiously. “Your guest has arrived.”

John lifted his eyes and met Harold’s gaze.

“Nice to see you again, Harold.” His tone was playful, but his stare was intense.

Harold felt his face grow warm again, but he willed it away.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Reese,” he said quietly.

John motioned for him to sit down and Harold quickly obliged.

“Please, call me John,” he said warmly.

“I apologize for meeting you on such short notice, but I wanted to see you again,” John began slowly.

Harold studied John’s face, but his expression was unreadable.

“I wanted to thank you in person,” he admitted.

“I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary, Mr. Reese,” Harold said softly.

“No, you didn’t. You treated me like a person,” John replied. He stirred his drink carefully and locked eyes with Harold once more.

“There was something different about you, Harold. I didn’t mean want to embarrass you at the library, but I wanted to meet you again.”

They lapsed into silence for a while, and the waiter started to approach the table. John held up his hand.

Harold cleared his throat and looked around the Tavern.

“This is all very generous, Mr. Reese, but I can’t accept it. I’m a simple man. I-,” he paused.

John put a finger to his lips and smiled.

“Harold, I was the one who contacted _you_. Your detective friend proved quite useful,” he chuckled.

“Lionel? Oh, I _knew_ it,” Harold muttered.

“It’s fine, Harold. Just give it some time. You might want to thank him after all,” John said with a wink. Harold opened his mouth to speak, but he looked down at his menu bashfully and cleared his throat.

“Are you ready to order, Mr. Reese?” he asked tightly.

John motioned for the waiter to come over.

“Get anything you want, Harold. Go wild,” he said musically.

Harold wasn’t sure what he meant, but it made his lips twitch into a smile.

_177.7_

They spoke for hours about everything from baseball to the classics, and Harold learned that John was much more well-read than he let on.

As night settled over the city, Harold and John decided to take a stroll around Central Park. They fell in step with each other and spoke in hushed tones, making note of the indigo-hued splendor of the city at dusk.

Harold paused at the edge of the Green and looked up at John Reese. He could scarcely believe that the billionaire was still interested in someone like him, but in his heart, he knew that John felt the same way.

There was an odd sort of loneliness about him before, an aloofness that could be interpreted as arrogance or coldness to the untrained eye.

However, that seemed to fall away as John bowed his head to meet his gaze, and Harold felt himself grinning widely.

“Thank you for dinner, John,” Harold said softly, breaking the silence.

John nodded as he pulled on his gloves.

“It was my pleasure, Harold,” he said warmly, and the smaller man quickly looked away.

“I’d like to do it again sometime,” John said slowly, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

Harold nodded quickly and cursed his eagerness.

“I- of course, Mr. Reese!” he exclaimed.

John smiled and leaned in close.

“It’s a date, then,” he whispered.

His breath was hot on Harold’s ear, and the librarian flushed at the contact.

John dropped a business card in his pocket.

“Call me.”

He turned to leave, but Harold gathered all his courage and called out to him.

“John, wait!”

He grabbed John’s head and pulled him down into a brief, hungry kiss, and the taller man reciprocated.

“How about Friday?” he asked breathlessly.

John grinned into the kiss.

“Sounds good to me,” he murmured.

He pulled away and gave Harold his trademark wink. The librarian gave him a knowing smile and a quick nod, and the billionaire disappeared into the dusk.

Harold paused for a moment as he watched John walk away.

“Lionel,” he said softly, “I owe you one.”  


 End.

 

 

 

 


End file.
